


Three of a Kind

by slothprincess



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers, Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Sharing a Bed, locked in a closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-02-20 02:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13137381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothprincess/pseuds/slothprincess
Summary: Locking Ratchet and Rodimus in a closet together wasn't one of his best ideas, but Drift's determined for them all to get along. The results just might not be what he's hoping for.





	1. Chapter 1

Drift flinched, staring at the straining metal with apprehension. Regret festered through his fuel lines and he was dangerously close to asking Brainstorm if he had an extra time machine stowed away. Another sharp bang struck the closet door, rattling the hinges. Drift jumped backwards, spark flaring in shock.

“I swear to Primus, Drift, if you do not let us out!”

Drift grimaced. For such a stoat atheist, Ratchet sure invoked Primus’ name with a startling frequency. It was a known point of contention between the two leading to many spirited debates. And when Drift was lucky those debates led to _other_ spirited activities. Activities leading to Ratchet screaming Primus’ name in decidedly different context. He shook his helm disbursing the line of thought. This was no time for fantasizing. Besides, if he pushed Ratchet too far, not even The Creator himself could save him.

“Drift, are you listening? I hope to Primus,” Drift could practically hear the finger quotes this time, “you don’t need any medical attention any time soon because I’m very tempted to let your sorry aft rust. And trust me, when I get out of here, you will be severely needing some!” Ratchet roared.

Drift remained silent, quite sagely if he might say so himself. What was the saying? _Discretion was the better part of valor_. It had received little utilization within the Decepticons (who preferred gun blazing carnage), but The Circle of Light had found it erudite enough to repeat ad nauseam. 

 It was very unfortunate for everyone then that, Rodimus, whom Drift very much doubted even knew the word, “Discreet”, took the opportunity to chime in, laying into the medic with his usual childlike contempt. Juvenile bickering erupted from within the supply closet, as well as several resounding crashes.

Drift cringed and imagined himself planting his helm against the wall. Instead, he took three deep breaths, centering himself. Yup, this was a patently awful idea. Possibly even top ten, right below that drinking contest with Trailbreaker in ‘98, and joining the Decepticons (it was arguable which had longer lasting repercussions). 

The door lurched again, steel cables groaning in protest at another round of ruthless kicks. Drift shivered, eyeing the frame. Had he been contemplating opening it before, he certainly wasn’t now. The second that door slipped open an inch, it would be a race to see who could strangle the unlucky swordsmech first. 

He’d always figured his death would be empty-socketed in a ditch or struck down in a barrage of bullets. Choked to death by an angry lover hadn’t even made the list. It said a lot that he’d rather face another millennia of war. But then again, most Cybertronians never had a Prime and The Hatchet gunning for them simultaneously. He groaned, how had he gotten himself into such a mess?

“You want me to do what?” Brainstorm had asked peering over his gun in astonishment.

 Dating multiple mechs wasn’t necessarily an uncommon practice among Cybertronians. Trines were particularly popular on many of the off-world cities and during the war open relationships abounded aplenty on both sides. Drift had made it clear to both parties their relationship wasn’t exclusive. In fact, Ratchet was far too busy to support a full-time relationship and Rodimus had his own slew of casual suitors.Still their little “love triangle” had grown problematic. Tensions were building between the two mechs and Drift couldn’t help but feel responsible.

Brainstorm stared, weapon forgotten in his lap.

“We sorta try and keep it down low, you might not have noticed,” Drift finished lamely. 

Brainstorm stared harder, frowning.

“Trust me, Drift,” he said, clapping him on the back, “everyone knows. Kinda wish I didn’t but apparently seeing you and Rodimus neck isn’t _traumatic_ enough for Chromedome.” Brainstorm shrugged, trailing off pointedly. 

Color crept into Drift’s cheeks as he snarled. They weren’t that obvious. They did have some decorum, even if Rodimus had a mile long exhibitionist streak.

“So, will you do it or not?” He demanded. 

Brainstorm shrugged again, “You know me, I’ll create whatever. The question is,” he laced his fingers, “are you going to be okay with it? In the long run messing with people’s hearts isn’t much different than with their minds.’

Drift looked down, unable to maintain eye contact, “I just want them to get along.” Brainstorm leaned in and Drift felt as if he was under immense scrutiny. Say the wrong thing not only would he be denied but his request would probably brought to the attention of Ultra Magnus, or worse, Rodimus himself. He pressed forward, no going back now.

 “I know if they’d just spend a little time together they really would get along! They’re not that different,” Brainstorm raised an optic, but said nothing, as he continued, “They just need a little shove in the right direction.” He was right about this. He had to be. He just had to have faith.

Brainstorm looked doubtful, “If you say so.”

The violent rending of metal hinges shook Drift from his revery as one of the door hinges crumpled. Optics wide he redialed his comm’s last frequency with frantic abandon, hoping against all odds the other mech would still be awake. After what felt like ages the line clicked merrily, connecting them.

“Brainstorm,” he hissed, “It isn’t working!”

 A large yawn filtered through the connection, “Oh, the love potion?”

Drift’s jaw dropped, “Love potion!” He was so dead. 

“I didn’t want a love potion! I just wanted something to stop them from chewing each others damned heads off every time they come in contact!”

The onslaught against the door stopped as a deadly silence permeated the medbay. With much trepidation Drift realized how loudly the words, “love” and “potion” had left his mouth. The silence stretched on. Not a great sign.

 Brainstorm blustered on through the link oblivious, about how else was he supposed to interpret such a hare-brained request. With an admonishment that he really should have been more clear about expectations he dropped the line with a promise not to do anyone anymore favors. But Drift had stopped listening clicks ago.

 “Rodimus?” He paused hesitantly, creeping forwards, “Ratchet?” Resting his head against the cool metal he listened for noise within. More silence.

This was it. One of them had finally killed the other. Dead. And now he’d have to tell Ultra Magnus either their Captain or Chief Medical Officer was deceased and it was all his fault because he couldn’t make his Primus damned mind up and had the bright idea to—Indistinct giggling erupted from within. 

“ _Rodimus_ ,” Drift thought. He’d know that laugh anywhere.The giggling was cut off by harsh whisper followed by more snickers, “ _And Ratchet_.”

Drift narrowed his eyes, drawing himself into a defensive position. Ok, so they were both still functioning (admittedly a plus). But, what were they playing at? He approached the door.

A breathy moan bubbled up, “Oh, Ratchet! _Stop_ ,”

Drift froze, that didn’t sound like pain. Didn’t sound like Rodimus particularly wanted him to stop either. What a tart, he rolled his optics.

“Very funny, guys. I’ve learned my lesson.” The murmuring sighs continued.

 “Guys?” Drift tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for a response, “I’m opening the door.”

 Leave it to those two figure out his intentions and tease him relentlessly about it. Well it wouldn’t work. They were just trying to get a rise.

“You two better be decent,” he said good-naturedly. He supposed it was pretty humorous. Rodimus and Ratchet. About the only thing they had in common was a hate of Megatron, and if that was the only requirement for lovers the whole Lost Light would be one massive orgy. That was a terrifying thought. There were bots aboard who he’d never imagined as sexual beings and hoped to never have to.

 Inputting the code, he slid the door open, pausing to admire a particularly vicious dent in the framework. Drift whistled, one more good heave and the door would have been toast. Peering into the closet, Drift froze.

Rodimus leant against Ratchet, one arm looped loosely around his waist.A hand snaked behind, cusping Ratchet’s boxy aft. Drift’s mouth watered with envy. Ratchet never allowed him anywhere near his aft. Especially in public. Primus, the last time he’d tried Ratch had swatted him so hard he hadn’t been able to differentiate auras for hours.

Predicting a swipe, Drift readied himself, preparing to intervene for Rodimus’ sake any moment. Instead, Ratchet purred, drawing closer, whispering something into Rodimus’ ear that made the sports car’s engines turn and rumble.

“Hmm? Oh, Drift, you’re still here?” Rodimus looked up from nibbling Ratchet’s neck with just enough effort to appear surprised. Drift’s plates rankled, but before he could say anything, they pushed past him, swaying against each other.

“Tell him we’ll see him later,” Ratchet growled, voice gravelly, “I believe you and I have a _private_ appointment.” And with that the two former enemies turned on their feet and left. Dumbfounded, Drift watched the galley doors swing shut behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

Drift glowered over the lip of his energon spritzer. Arms waving wildly, Rodimus was narrating an animated tale of his escapades. A not uncommon occurrence, he’d heard this one, and if he was betting, so had the crowd. Rather their attention was focussed on the mech sprawled across his lap. Thighs spread over one of Rodimus’ slim legs the medic wriggled enticingly, headlights twinkling in a gruesome display. A disgusted fascination had spread throughout the bar’s patrons. He couldn’t blame them, not really. This was a disturbing display even for Rodimus’ standards. Ratchet hummed, occasionally offering up a sweet, pressing it into Rodimus’ mouth with a look of sickly saccharine adoration.

It occurred to him this might be what having a stroke felt like. Ratchet had told him about them one sleepy orn off, the two of them snuggled against one of the medbay's extra-wide berths. At the time Drift hadn’t been too keen on listening, more interested instead on lavishing Ratchet’s hands with rich lotions and oils. He’d droned on through a few more symptoms, before Drift had successfully distracted him with a tweak to the chevron. Drift’s mouth dried at the memory of that night. His panels pinged him hopefully. He sighed, denying their request to open just as a dirty moan drifted across the bar.

Drift scowl deepened. They were making a Primusdamn scene. Hound had already left, a bright blush creeping over his faceplates and Bluestreak’s nose was scrunched in a disgusted fascination. Even Rung, master of polite indifference, was looking faintly ill as he buffed out one of his model ships with more zeal than strictly necessary. Draining his glass, Drift slammed down his tankard, eyes narrowing. They were just doing this to be irritating, the fraggers.

“Keep the change,” he growled, hurling his payment onto the counter next to a transfixed Swerve. He turned his back just as Rodimus’ lips wrapped around Ratchet’s servos devouring the sticky sweet remains and then the door slammed closed behind him, obscuring his view of the amorous couple within.

***  
“He’s just doing it to annoy me!” Drift snarled, hurling the broken glass into the trash receptacle.

Perceptor didn’t look up,“Ratchet or Rodimus?” He asked, withdrawing a stray contaminant with a pipette.

“Both of them!”

Perceptor’s brow furrowed, “I don’t understand. Wasn’t that your objective? I thought you wanted them to get along better?”

“Yeah, but they were supposed to get along with me,” Drift grabbed a broom, it’s bristles bending under the weight of Drift’s swipes, “Now they’re just getting along without me. I’ve been brushed off 4 times this week already!” A large dust cloud erupted as Drift swept it’s pile away testily.

“Sounds like you’re experiencing what most would call jealousy,” Perceptor replied, opening a drawer and fishing out a stylus.  
“Pitts yeah, I’m jealous!” Drift cried, annoyed Perceptor still wasn’t giving him his full attention, “I went from having two…two best friends to none. I miss them, Perce, and not just the heavy interface stuff. It’s the little things. Like pestering Ratchet during lunch. Or helping Rodimus rearrange Magnus’ desk drawers when he’s not looking.” He sighed again, “I just didn’t think it would end up like this, you know?”

Perceptor’s face softened, “You had good intentions, but you really should have considered all that before you asked Brainstorm anything. Honestly! You know how,” Perceptor paused, tapping his stylus against his chin, as he considered the right word, “awry his plans tend to tilt. It’s a wonder we still have half the ship.”

“Where is Brainstorm, anyway?” Drift asked, “I’ve been meaning to have a chat with him.”

Perceptor snorted, “I found him loitering in an unused chamber earlier this orn when I was looking for some spare parts. Said he was already working on the reversal process and that hunting him down would be, and I quote, ‘unnecessary and a major disruption.’”

Drift looked up from where he was fidgeting with the blunt edge of a glass shard. “Huh. Well, at least there’s that,” he conceded, dropping it within the receptacle among it’s brethren.

***  
Rodimus nibbled on his lip, “Do you think he saw us?”

“Who Drift? I’d be more interested in who aboard didn’t see us,” Ratchet snorted, “The news is probably half way to Cybertron by now.” He downed another shot dedicating it in remembrance to his dignity and reputation. He’d been the head CMO, opened and financed hundreds of clinics, saved millions of lives. He’d been respected, damn it. And now here he was reduced to this, making googly optics at a mech he hated in order to make another envious on a ship full of loons. Optimus would be so disappointed. He could already envision the taut line of his mouth, lips slightly pursed. It was a reaction usually missed by all but Optimus’ most personal friends. A reaction usually saved for Rodimus’ antics. He stretched his back, slipping off Rodimus’ lap on stiff legs. Guess they really were in the same boat this time. How stupid.

Ratchet snuck a look around, looking anywhere but Rodimus’ faceplates. The bar was empty, spare the resident lushes passed out at their stools. The clinking of glasses rang out occasionally from the backroom as Ten continued his scrubbing.

“I think he feels bad.”

“Serves him right,” Ratchet snapped, “trying to manipulate us like that. Idiot deserves what’s coming.” He didn’t mean it. Not really. But despite everything, and everything was a lot, Drift was an idealist. He wanted everybody to get along. Desperately. Someone had to get it through his head, sometimes that just didn’t happen. Sometimes people didn’t like each other and it was nobody’s fault. And sometimes those people other people didn’t get along with were work-shirking, immature mechlings with zero self-control.

“Still, we should probably tell him soon,” Rodimus said, “You know how extra Drift gets about things.”Rodimus rose from the booth, groaning now that Ratchet no longer occupied his lap, “How do you even weigh this much? You’re not even that big!”

“You try storing half a med bay in your subspace!” Ratchet grumbled. He swiped a discarded glass from the bar, inspecting it before chugging the remains. Bitter-sweet diamond flakes coupled with ore. 

“And whose idea was it to pat their lap and invite me up in the first place anyway?” He retorted.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it! My poor thighs! Do they look dented to you? They feel dented. C’mon, you’re professional opinion?” Rodimus jumped up, showcasing his thighs.

Ratchet rolled his optics, trying not to allow his gaze to linger, “Your brain looks dented to me. But fine, tomorrow we’ll tell him. Primus knows I’m tired of pretending to enjoy your company.” 

Rodimus shot him an incredulous look, “Excuse me? You didn’t seem that bothered when you kept wriggling around against my panels like a mech in heat!”  
“I was only trying to wriggle away from you’re spastic spike plate and you know it!” Ratchet’s face heated. Sensing he was fighting a losing battle, he got up, glowering as he pushed his chair in, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to finish wiping the rest of your drool off my servos.”


	3. Chapter 3

Drift, we need to talk. Drift frowned at the sterile display text before him. Not the most encouraging of messages, nor one he wanted to hear. Worrying his lip, he slid further down the corner booth. The meeting place listed was public space, albeit a currently sparsely filled one. 

Apart from Drift only a few enamored couples were seated in theVisages lounge, all quietly engaged in their own bubbles, chattering about the ship’s hottest gossip and their day. The raising of a voice easily would cut through their subdued murmurs, drawing attention to a dispute. Drift’s brow softened. An encouraging sign at last. Ratchet and Rodimus mustn’t be too worried about wandering ears to plan their meeting here.

Of course he’d considered not going. The countless cancelled plans, no-shows, and the happy couples avoidance of all things Drift the previous week, had sent the message crystal clear. Drift was an unnecessary addition. Still Drift liked to think of himself as an optimist. 

Being frozen out did come with it’s advantages. Drift’s calendar had opened immensely.The amount of free time he had when not running Rodimus’ egomaniacal list of demands was downright surprising.

With his recently opened schedule and new-found fervor, Drift’s spiritual prowess underwent truly astounding development, especially with his spectral meditation. The downside being,  
the other crew members betting pool. A new sector had been drawn on the board, right between, “Ultra Magnus imposes marital law” and, “Reality is really Swerve’s subconscious trying to wake him up from an increasingly worrisome coma.”

“Drift ascends to sainthood,” it said, much to his chagrin. Perceptor had assured him it was all in good fun. A jest. Yet his immaculate scrawl on the chart hadn’t escaped Drift’s notice and he couldn’t help remember one other very important thing bots of the priesthood couldn’t do.

Pushing those thoughts away, Drift next dedicated time to his personal quarters. Spartan as his interior decor was, the floors had never gleamed quite so admirable as they did now. Drift fell headfirst into an extensive cleaning routine; wax, mop and polish. He’d even taken the time to scrub the hardened candle wax from the holder. After all a clean temple was a healthy temple. A daily scrubbing kept his room orderly, fresh, and clean. 

When even Ultra Magnus found no fault during the ship’s bi-weekly health inspection, he knew he had a problem. Poor Ultra Magnus had taken it almost as hard as he had, triple-checking the rivets in the wall and the undercarriage of the berth with an almost possessed frenzy. Doubtless now, he was furtively scouring his rulebooks searching for new and exciting infractions.

It was that orn he’d received the terse message. Taking the inspection pass as the ill omen it was, Drift had hastily accepted the invite almost immediately. Nothing good ever came reaching Magnus levels of order.

Drift checked his chronometer again, tapping the glass in hope it would hurry the needle along faster. They were late. Not that that was surprising. Ratchet’s medbay practically operated in it’s own timeline. He would have better luck keeling over and hoping some kind spark dragged him to the medbay than getting Ratchet out of it on any sort of time. And Rodimus? Rodimus was only on schedule about 45% of the time and that was only because Drift needled him about it. Drift shook his head. Hopeless, the two of them.

Drift drummed his fingers on the table, hoping this was another case of perpetually late expanded by two, and not being stood up. Again. Visages was starting to fill in with the late crowd. Bots bustled for service as the room filled up. Drift waved Mirage over for another pitcher while he still could and tried envisioning an organic ocean in his mind’s eye. Gentle tides rising. Rising and falling. Drift’s comm blinked.

“What now?” He snapped, opening the line with a growl, only to be surprised by Brainstorm’s call sign.

“The test results came back!” Brainstorm began without preamble, seemingly oblivious to Drift’s ire, “I think I’ve found the problem with the love potion.”

Drift’s temper evaporated immediately,“Great, so you can reverse it!”

“Here’s the thing.”

Drift froze. That didn’t sound great.

“The potion? Doesn’t work. Not the way you’re reporting it to have. I’ve been running countless sims and tests since the occurrence and finally narrowed down the error areas. It’s fascinating really. You see I was missing a positive charge in the ionic—”

Drift’s head throbbed,“Brainstorm, get to the point. How do I reverse it?”

“Okay, okay! Jeesh, no respect for genius,” Brainstorm huffed, “The vial I gave you? It’s the equivalent of a placebo. I made an error in my calculations. It shouldn’t cause a surge in affection, like, at all. How do I put this? Fundamentally, the love potion is a bust. Useless. No good.” 

There was a grim pause on the line, “In fact, applying it to test subjects just seems to enrage them.”

Drift choked on an ice cube.

“I may have tried it on Perceptor. Without consent. Or a clear understanding of biochemical reactions.” Brainstorm cleared his throat, “Anyway, yeah, there’s no science motivating Ratchet and Rodimus’ little tryst. They’re doing this on their own. I claim zero responsibility fo—” 

Brainstorm was interrupted by what sounded like several walls caving in and an F-level explosion that rattled the glasses in Visages despite being two floors away.

“Listen, Drift, I gotta run, and, uh, if Perceptor asks don’t tell him whe—” The line dropped once again cutting off Brainstorm’s plea. Drift swallowed another mouthful of his tea. Envious of the scientist, he was not.

Drift began processing the revelations brought to him. If Brainstorm’s potion wasn’t causing this sudden infatuation, what was? There was no way Ratchet and Rodimus actually like each other. Right? The thought was ludicrous and Drift deleted it almost instantaneously. 

He thought he’d been discreet about it, but maybe they’d somehow overheard his first conversation with Brainstorm through the closet. He wouldn’t put it past them that this was all some big ploy to teach him a lesson. The more he thought about it, it was the only concept that made any form of sense. It was just stupid enough to be one Rodimus’ harebrained schemes and the pettiness just enough to ensnare Ratchet’s passive aggressive spark. Ratchet it and Rodimus were pulling one over him.

Indignation burnt through Drift’s lines in turgid waves. It was ironic really. Too often he fought to eradicate every last ounce of his past. To cram every cruel intention, every sadist act, he’d had into a box, bury it in a field of pacifist love and forgiveness. And too often his illicit affairs were dredged up, like so many sunken ships. 

It was Drift’s bane in life, the one aspect of himself he disavowed with vengeance, the one he was remembered for. Drift shook his head. He could battle monsters of the past later. The future awaited.

Now it seemed Rodimus and Ratchet had forgotten this side of him. They’d grown complacent. Sure, Drift had abandoned his Decepticon ways. But he hadn’t forgotten the conniving lessons and treachery. He wasn’t proud of it, but Drift sure as hell wasn’t going to allow Rodimus and Ratchet have the last laugh. He’d started this mess and now he was going to end it. The game was on.

Rodimus jogged to the table foppish smile plastered on, “Hey, Drift, sorry we’re late! Ratchet’s still finishing up a consultation. Turns out seventeen is the pinnacle amount of energy pasties one can safely consume in a single sitting. Blasters learned that the hard way, I’m afraid.”

Drift cast him a withering look. Rodimus wilted, “Anyway, he’ll be here soon.”

“I wasn’t aware you were capable of physical separation,” Drift replied icily. Rodimus laughed strained and high.

“That’s kinda what we wanted to talk about, Drift. You’ve gotten the wrong idea, and we haven’t really bothered correcting you. Actually we mighta been composing this misunderstanding ourselves to get at you…”

Drift arched a brow, as he stirred his tea. At that moment Ratchet’s industrial frame entered, scanning the crowd for the two sports models. In the growing crowd, he hadn’t yet noticed them. Rodimus started to rise, waving Ratchet over like a lifeline. A single cruel thought blossomed on Drift’s lips, curling into a fearsome grin. Dead-fast he snaked his leg out, hooking Rodimus’ pede. Rodimus fumbled, cracking his knees upon Mirage’s imported floors just as Ratchet reached the table.

Widening his optics into the perfect facsimile of exuberant shock, Drift grinned. He raised his voice, loud enough for the bar’s entirety to hear before exclaiming loud as he could,“He’s proposing! Rodimus is proposing! Ratchet and Rodimus! They’re getting married!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone in this fan fiction is a huge dick.


	4. Chapter 4

“This is all your fault and you know it,” Ratchet growled. 

Rolling his optics, Rodimus selected another candy from the bar, “Oh please. Like you’ve never been fake-engaged before,” he said, offering the jellied energy to Ratchet, shaking it enticingly.

Ratchet eyed the pretty package, scoffing. As if petty bribery would work on someone of his moral stature. Besides Rodimus wasn’t even offering any of the best flavors. Opting instead to carefully cherry-pick out all the Polyhexian Pralines for himself, he had left Ratchet with only a paltry selection. Ratchet scrunched up his nose at the remaining gels. Synthetic swirls and artificial screwbits, popular during the recession for their low energon percentage. Blech. The artificial enrichments were always the worst, coating the mouth with a filmy aftertaste. 

Ratchet returned Rodimus’ subpar offering with an obscene gesture, choosing instead to swipe one of Rodimus’ gels with his other hand. He popped the treat into his mouth with a faintly-concealed fury, daring him to argue. Much to Rodimus’ credit, he merely looked nonplussed, picking at the box’s desecrated remains before selecting a Synthetic Swirl. Huh. He’d always pictured Rodimus as more of a Mineral Chew kind of bot.

Rodimus dug out a chunk of Mineral Chew caught in his dentae, flicking it away with feigned cool, “Is that what we fixed your hands for? So you could make rude signs and steal other people’s snacks?”

Rolling his optics Ratchet finished his own sweet, candidly licking the sticky syrup from his servos. He mirrored his previous gesture with a flourish.

“Get bent, Rodimus.”

Still looking around the Engagement Suite, Ratchet had to admit it was a well-supplied oasis. The room was downright opulent compared to the rest of the Lost Light’s crew quarters. Hidden behind a cloth divider a heated oil bath bubbled luxuriously while sticks of incense burned, filling the suite with a smoky fragrance. Towards the suite’s left sat a personal kitchenette overflowing with exotic and complimentary treats. Many of them Ratchet had never heard of. 

In the suite’s middle, heaped with decorative pillows and fine throws sat the berth. Large enough for one of the smaller combiners and plush enough to throw a Praxian into fits of ecstasy, it was an impressive piece. The behemoth took up the majority of the suite, promising a lavishing experience to all who lay upon it. Ratchet hated to admit it but he was astounded. 

Engagement suites were usually reserved for high-caste mechs beginning the conjure ceremony of rites. Though that tradition had long-since died with the war. That the Lost Light housed such a relic, was incredible. He’d have to remember to ask Drift more about the ship’s previous owners once everything had blown over.

Rodimus had wasted no time plopping onto one of the many ornate pillows, propping his feet up one over another, fixing Ratchet with a haughty expression. Primus give him the cockiness of a speedster.

“Oh, c’mon, it’s not that bad,” Rodimus said, rearranging his silken throne, “All we have to do is lay low a few days and once the pre-engagement period’s up, say we decided against it. No harm, no foul. And most importantly, no marriage. ‘Sides I must’ve done this six of seven times back on Earth. Especially when Optimus was being a real gearstick. Which I mean like always, really.”

An ugly snort erupted before Ratchet could stop himself. Leave it to Rodimus to exploit a sacred tradition to escape mildly inconvenient situations. And Leave it to Optimus to allow it. He really could be a gearstick sometimes.

“The whole concept of Marriage and Conjuxes is dumb,” Ratchet shrugged, turning his back. He selected another energon and scarfed it down. This time a spicy Pepper Oil. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but if he was going to be stuck here, he might as well take advantage of the space’s premium features.

Rodimus’ optics grew wide, “What? You’ve never dreamed of completing the rites with someone you love? Settling down with another bot and getting old…,” he cocked his head, “Well older in your case I guess.”

Ratchet ignored the pointed jab,“Conjuxes are a waste of time.”

Rodimus cocked his head, “Even Drift?”

“Especially Drift.”

Rodimus stumbled up, catching himself in the berth’s tangled fabrics, “You take that back,” he spat, whipping an afghan off from around his pedes, “You should be so lucky someone like him even looks at an old rust bucket like you!” Bright blots of color flared on his cheeks, as he glared.

Ratchet’s throat caught as he studied the floor. He’d heard this argument before. Been on both sides of it.

“I know.”  
Ratchet scrubbed his face, he really didn’t want to get into this right now. Not here, not with Rodimus. He was tired and irritable and Rodimus was oh so very stupid. Rodimus lowered an accusatory finger, confusion lighting his optics, a question burning on his lips. Better to head him off, get this over with, before Rodimus’ brain module jumps to it’s own misguided conclusions.

“I don’t know why he cares so much. Drift, he’s perfect, deserves someone perfect. Someone who gives him 110%, not some dodgy old medic slowly overworking himself to death. I’m not worth this big hullabaloo. I barely spend any time with him as is. I don’t know why he bothered so much to get us to get along.” 

Ratchet sucked in an invent. There. He’d said it out loud. The thing he’d feared all along, buried deep in the darkest rivulets of his spark now laid out before him. He didn’t want to look. See the predatory judgement in Rodimus’ face or worse, the cloying pity. Slag Drift and his foolish plans, dragging up his hermetically sealed emotional routines.

To Ratchet’s astonishment, Rodimus flops back onto the berth, toppling backwards into a graceless, giggling heap. 

“Heh. You really got it bad, don’t you, Ratch?” 

Ratchet glowered. He’d expected nothing from Rodimus and was still disappointed. Ratchet felt a sudden relatable kinship to Shockwave. The Decepticon scientist was right, feeling were for fools. 

Ignoring the sniggering sparkling he called captain, Ratchet crossed the room, fiddling with the oil bath’s control panel. Stupid thing hadn’t stop bubbling since they got here. Waste of perfectly good energon. Stupid stuff like this was why they were always ending up port-side, haggling with some shifty organic drifter for enough over-priced fuel to make it to the next pit-spawn port. He jabbed the off switch with more force than necessary. The pool gave one last shuddering gasp and died. From across the room, Rodimus had finally caged his mirth. Gasping for breath he sat up.

“You know that’s not true.”

Rodimus was watching him, supporting himself with his elbows, an unreadable smile on his face.

“Drift doesn’t think that. He sees something in you. What exactly, I have no idea. But there’s something.”

Rodimus propped himself up, “If you tell him I told you this, I will deny it repeatedly but: he talks about you all the time when we’re together. About how charming you are, how witty, and confident. He’s deluded, I think. Or maybe a little high? Not sure. Mildly aggravating at the least, especially when I’ve got my spike up his tight—”

Ratchet gave him a look and Rodimus cleared his throat.

“What I’m trying to say is, he clearly loves you very much. And by saying you don’t deserve him, you’re taking away his agency. He’s a grown mech, Ratch, he can pick who he likes. He can pick who he wants to spend time with. Even if they are cranky old medics with minimal redeemable qualities. Personally, I’m just glad you’re not Megatron.”

Ratchet’s audials burnt. He chanced a glance up, but Rodimus had already turned, pulling out a spare data pad absent-mindedly flipping through it’s pages.

“Hey, Rodimus?”

Rodimus inclined his head, not looking up.

“I’m glad you’re not Megatron too.”

Rodimus exhaled, “If that’s your way of saying thanks, just hurry up and get in,” he said, patting the berth. 

Ratchet’s optics almost popped out of his head. If Rodimus thought one sparkfelt conversation was enough to get him to berth, he was sorely mistaken. Mistaken and in need of serious medical aid, if he didn’t keep his dirty paws to himself. Sure he had his history of berth hopping, but this was ridiculous even for Rodimus’ standards. He wasn’t that easy.

As if reading his mind, or perhaps just his dead expression, Rodimus recoiled.

“Ew. Not like that. It’s late and there’s just the one berth. I mean unless you want to recharge on the ground.” He shrugged, continuing to amass the majority of the pillows towards his end, “Not like I care. Sleep where you want.”

Shoving down his embarrassment, Ratchet surrendered, clambering into the berth. A night on the floor didn't look relishing, especially with his old back. And if he hurried he might still be able to secure a pillow. 

Besides, it was a large berth. If they both stuck to their respective sides they needn’t ever touch. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they touch


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey it's a wild rodimus POV

Rodimus woke to a burning heat against his back. Sturdy arms grasped him from behind, enclosing him in warmth. Wriggling deeper into the embrace, he invented deeply, leaning his helm against his partner’s. Drift always did know just how to hold him. Secure, but not constricting. A steady breath tickled Rodimus’ cheek as Drift drew him tighter, their bodies pressing against each other. Drift shifted, his panel grinding a trail against Rodimus.

“You’re going to get me all hot,” Rodimus teased, elbowing him, though it was with little ire, “You know I can’t be held responsible for what I—”

Drift flipped him over mid quip. Smothering him with a kiss of uncharacteristic fervor. Rodimus gasped in delight. In their nightly rituals, Drift was usually content to take a backseat, allowing Rodimus lead. This dominant Drift was new and exciting. Rodimus bit back a moan when Drift’s hands groped lower, sliding down his array. They should really argue more often if it made Drift this enthusiastic.

Primus, he’d forgotten what they were even upset about in the first place to be honest. He didn’t think he had made of Drift’s crystals in a while, so it couldn’t be that. Maybe something to do with not filing those reports? Nah, that was definitely more in Magnus’ wheelhouse.

Rodimus froze, energon in his veins turning to icy slush as the last few orns booted from his cache in torrential waves. He wasn’t with Drift. And he wasn’t with Trailcutter, Skids, or any of the other latest additions of his Friends with Rodimus Benefits Club. Hell, even Magnus would have been a step up. Strong, silent and surprisingly comforting when one was able to get him to take off the safety helmet, if only he had woken to regulation blue.

Maybe if he didn’t roll over, he could got on continuing to believe that. A red hand curled around his. And there went that hope. Dead before it even left the ground.

A snore erupted from behind him. Twisting himself, Rodimus looked down at his berthmate and blinked.Ratchet was asleep. Had been asleep. Even rhythmic breaths beat a tempo through the silence. 

“Dirty, old lech. Must be having a helluva good dream,” Rodimus thought bitterly, yanking his side of the blanket over himself from where it had slipped.

“Ratchet.”

The breathing continued, steady and undisturbed. Rodimus poked him.

“Ratchet,” He hissed again, kicking the medic’s shin none too lightly. Ratchet merely rolled over, tugging the blanket back with him. Rodimus rolled his optics. Primus damned medic slept like the dead.

Giving up rousing him or regaining his half of the covers, Rodimus gazed down at Ratchet’s sleeping form. Face unencumbered of irritation, Ratchet really did cut a dashing figure. Worry lines were smoothed away, his face peaceful, a reminder that Ratchet wasn’t actually that much older than him and Drift. Instead cycles of ill-repair and a staunch refusal of a frame update had prematurely aged him. Despite his outdated design and boxy silhouette, Ratchet’s seams were well kept and tidy. 

The delicate lines of cherry paint accentuating his eyes, so reminiscent of Drift’s own, were smooth, obviously applied by a dedicated hand. Perhaps Drift’s own? He could just imagine them, sitting crosslegged, cramped up in that commandeered escape pod painting each others faces and laughing.

Rodimus mimed tracing the lines with his finger. How would he look with his own crimson additions? He shook his head at the thought, snorting. They’d probably look lame. Or try-hardy. You’d have to be a pretty big nerd to pull them off.

Ratchet’s mouth opened slightly, lips pursed. Rodimus leaned in closer memorized. He’d always imagined Ratchet’s lips to be chapped, rough from orn’s of thoughtless picking. Instead they were plush with the alluring plumpness usually reserved for more feminine bots. He’d never noticed before. 

His optics trailed down Ratchet’s frame, absorbing overlooked details, the way his hood sloped, the lengthy legs supported by two husky pedes. Even Ratchet’s hands held a certain grace with their elegant digits. Nevermind who they belonged to firsthand.

Rodimus lip curled in disgust. Since when had he found the Hatchet even remotely attractive? He was cranky and rude, and never knew when to quit.

The warmth of hot breath hit Rodimus’ cheek. In his morbid fascination Rodimus had crept even closer, till their noses almost met, his lips hovering over Ratchet’s.

This was wrong. He shouldn’t be doing this. No way! Ratchet was asleep. And, well, Ratchet. If he had the displeasure of awaking to Rodimus leering over him, he’d be deader than Mortilus himself. Or worse: alive and forced to live with knowledge that Ratchet’s face made his spark throb and his lunch threaten to bail ship. That he was an admirer of medics! An ambulance chaser even! Where was Chromedome and his needles when you needed them?  
Below him, Ratchet shifted, head lolling against Rodimus’. Before he could stop himself, Rodimus swooped down. Changing his mind last second, he pressed a chaste peck on Ratchet’s cheek, face burning.

Relief and disappointment warred inside his spark. Consolation that this new frightening development remained a secret mixed with displeasure that Ratchet hadn’t woken up, scooped him up and continued their sordid affair. 

Maybe if he didn’t think about it, these new emotions would go away. Primus, he didn’t even know why they were so bothersome. It’s not like he and Drift were exclusive. He found plenty of other bots attractive. Rodimus bit his lip. Why was this so worrisome? So different?

Rodimus rolled over, plastering his arms stiff to his sides, not daring to move or even breathe. Glad for the dark, a tingling warmth flared across his face, settling onto his lips as he tried to lure himself back to a semblance of sleep. But try as he may, he couldn’t stuff his unwanted revelations back into their box. Peacefully unaware of the emotional turmoil blazing next to him, Ratchet slumbered on.


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> good decision time, rodimus

Ultra Magnus was watching him from across the room, his face carefully arranged into his patent no-nonsense grimace. It was an expression that suited him well. He’d worn it to military tribunes and celebrations alike. Now, he was fixing it upon Rodimus casting furtive glances across the room when he thought no one was looking.

No doubt wondering why Rodimus wasn’t still in the honeymoon suite lapping up time with his betrothed. After all, he wasn’t one to look a gift vacation in the mouth. Or however the saying went. The rumors of his and Ratchet’s ill-thought affair were sure to be so wide-spread even Magnus couldn’t avoid them. Rodimus bit his inner cheek, ignoring Magnus. Truth was, he was stumped.

For all his charm and charisma and, well, Ratchet’s lack of said qualities, he couldn’t stop thinking about the medic. What had changed? Was he really so fickle and desperate a mech that an accidental grope was enough to garner his attention? Or was it something deeper. He’d known Ratchet for years and never put much thought either way to the bot. If only he could talk to Drift about it. Drift always knew what to do, even if Rodimus had a habit of ignoring him. Across the room, Magnus made a soft tutting sound.

“Something on your mind, Magnus?” he asked, tracing another swirling arc into the design on his desk. Rodimus’ last desk had been so overtaken by the scrawling symbols and mug stains Ultra Magnus had had it removed, transplanted to a storage area deep in the depths of the Lost Light. He’d also had Rodimus sign an agreement form stating art (including, but not limited to drawing, etching, and carving) were not permitted in the Command Center. A firmly-worded amendment requested he use a coaster with any liquids. An agreement Rodimus was quietly disregarding.

Magnus had the decency to look abashed at being caught snooping. He scratched the back of his neck, “It’s just I never see you in the command center this early, let alone at your desk and actually working.”

Still moody from his rumination, Rodimus found he had little to add to Magnus’ statement. He certainly wasn’t in the mood to entertain Magnus’ stilted attempts at small talk. Instead he turned back to his drawing. He was quite proud of it. Over the last half orn he had been lovingly depicting Megatron’s defeat at the Iacon Shipyard, a defeat Megatron had taken quite personal and still a major sore spot with him.

“I’m proud of you.”

Rodimus finished etching in the final details of a crippled Soundwave before beginning on his next endeavor. He had a feeling Magnus’ wouldn’t be feeling so generous if he saw the dirty limerick Rodimus was starting to carve. Now if only he could think of something naughty to rhyme with ‘ton’.

Magnus dragged his stool closer, tilting his head. Someone somewhere had told him that was how you indicated interest in a topic.

“What brought this on? Did Ratchet finally pound some sense into you?” He asked.

Rodimus’ stylus ground to a halt mid-scratch (he had settled on rhyming ‘ton’ with ‘come,’ a half-rhyme that would draw more ire from his co-captain than the rest of the poem combined). He prepared to pounce at this rare opportunity Primus had given him.

“I didn’t mean that as an entendre, Rodimus,” Magnus said sternly, interrupting the blossoming retort.

Rodimus shrugged, launching his chair back onto one precarious leg, and inspecting Magnus’ large form. He was a vaguely disappointed. That even Magnus, who punished gossip with cleaning duty, believed their coupling. He must have been a better actor than he thought.

“You actually believe the rumors we’re Conjux-to-be?” He asked.

“With you, it’s hard to tell.”

Rodimus smirked. Magnus had said, ‘hard.’

 “I refuse to play this game with you, Rodimus,” Magnus scowled, a little upset he’d given his Captain more ammo for his dirty game, a little bit more upset he had understood it. He straightened the stylus’ on his desk, arranging them side-by-side in a perfect queue, “If it isn’t true, why are you going along with it? I hardly think it’s fair to others involved to pretend.”

“Why, you jealous?” Rodimus asked, miming a filthy hand gesture. Drift had taught it to him, straight from the Dead End.

 Magnus fixed him with an even glare, “Rodimus,” he warned.

 “Fine, fine. We were trying to make Drift upset. He keeps pushing us to hang out, but we just don’t get along. Well. Didn’t.” Rodimus paused.“Now I don’t know anymore. Ratchet’s got this strange allure. I’ve never seen it before. You know I always wondered what Drift saw in him.”

Rodimus looked up. He was losing Magnus. The energon had drained from Magnus’ face as his optics danced across the room searching for an escape like a trapped turbofox. Emotional support wasn’t Magnus’ thing. Magnus was of the sort that if he couldn’t assign an immediate cut-dry answer to a problem, he was helpless.

Rodimus sighed, expecting Magnus’ hasty retreat. Instead, Magnus placed one beefy hand on Rodimus’ shoulder, optics full of compassion, “Just apologize.” Rodimus blinked in surprise. He had expected Magnus to be halfway to the lower deck by now.

 “You and Drift argue all the time, this is hardly the worst thing you’ve done. As long as you’re sincere and succinct in your apology, he’s sure to forgive you. He has a lot of faith and don’t you think you’ve dragged this out long enough?”

Magnus’ hand slipped off of Rodimus as he straightened up, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think there’s a fight in the lower labs I need to break up…or something of that sort. Definitely something that requires my attention. Goodbye, Rodimus.” He nodded, the door sliding shut behind him.

Good, old emotionally stunted Ultra Magnus. Rodimus’ chair’s legs hit the ground with a thud. But if even Magnus thought an apology was overdue. It was time to put this argument behind him.

It was with that thought and an expensive bottle of Energon, Rodimus found himself outside the Lost Light’s training hall. Way before Rodimus’ captaincy the halls had been some kind of music auditorium. However none of the Lost Light’s crew had been particularly musically inclined. They were more violently inclined and so the auditorium had been renovated.

The form of Drift’s back cut strong lines with each swipe of his sword.Rodimus had written an entire speech in his mind of all the things we wanted to say. But standing here now, all the reasons Drift should forgive him, why they were better together, all of it flew from his mind leaving it empty as a leaker.

Pangs of guilt tinged with regret swelled in Rodimus’ spark. Sure, Drift had done a dumb thing, locking them in that closet, but his own decisions and actions had accelerated the problem. He could have just let it go. It’s not like he’d hadn’t done things twice as stupid. Pitts, locking someone in a closet didn’t even scratch top ten of awful things he’d done to Drift. Why was he like this?

Rodimus’ throat constricted, as the room blurred. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Harshly, he invented fresh air, trying to catch his breathe.

Drift’s optics widened as he finally noticed his audience. His sword stilled mid-air with a subtle whoosh. Behind him an arm fell belatedly off a training dummy, slashed in two, sand spilling from it’s innards.

“Rodimus?” Drift asked. Rodimus had expected anger and cruel words over a curled lip. Instead Drift merely looked worried.

“Are you alright, Rodimus? You look a little pale.”

Rodimus clutched the energon bottle, fluid welling up in his optics.

“I’m so stupid,” He wailed, “I just made everything worse!”

Drift bound across the room abandoning his training. Scooping a heaving Rodimus into a secure embrace, “I’ve missed you, too!”

Rodimus wiped a tear from his eye noticing Drift’s own optics were dangerously close to pooling over. Rodimus pulled him closer, breathing in the scent of warm oil and patchouli, “Let’s never fight again.”

“Deal,” Drift sniffed.


	7. 7

The scalding water sent wisps of steam swirling through the chilly morning air as Ratchet rinsed his hands. The ship’s artificial sun had barely risen and already the med bay’s schedule was filling up. Atomizer needed a new cast, Bluestreak had broken his finger again, and Brainstorm appeared to have gotten on the wrong side of a social experiment, if an irritated Perceptor had had anything to say about it. Not to mention the infinite parade of other inevitable medical emergencies that always seemed to arise when you locked five hundred Cybertronians into limited spacing.

Ratchet had awoken alone, not unusual. He’d rolled over, hand slapping blindly at his blaring alarm. A tablet had been left on his nightstand, decidedly more unusual. It was a cheap disposable thing; all plastics and polycarbons, limited memory functions. Nothing to set it apart from any other, minus the glyph etched into the back. A gleaming Rodimus Star winking mirthfully at him. Ratchet groaned. Rodimus appropriating official equipment for his own nefarious purposes, why was he not surprised?

Throwing the med bay’s spent linens into the machine, Ratchet made careful note to quarantine Nightbeat’s for immediate disposal. He doubted the ugly, little, organic parasites who had found their home inside the detective were sustainable outside the Cybertronian body, but it never hurt to be too careful. One never knew. Throwing in an extra helping of the detergent for good measure, he slammed the machine door shut, meandering slowly back towards the bay’s front desk.

Rodimus’ tablet lay waiting, tucked between an inventory list (they were running low on antihistamines again) and a biography of The Wrecker’s first decade of service. He had yet to read the note; a combination of affected disinterest and apprehension. His feelings were whatever this tablet contained once read, he’d never be able to return from. The longer he ignored it, the longer he could avoid one very regretful epiphany. Ratchet powered on the steamer, busying himself with the work, hoping to delay his realization a few orns longer.

They hadn’t done anything unforward that night in the honeymoon suite. Thank Primus! No, that wasn’t what he was worried about. His fears belied something much more banal, a difficult truth to bare.

Ratchet was a finicky sleeper and Rodimus struck him as fidgety. He had expected sharing a berth with Rodimus of all mechs to be the epitome of uncomfortable. Instead Ratchet had had one of the best sleeps of his life! Prone as he was to bouts of sleep apnea, sleep paralysis, sleep walking, and random boot-ups, he had, against-all-odds, slept the whole night through. Not a single false start-up. Pitts, he hadn’t even had to get up to go to the bathroom! Even sleeping next to Drift, he’d managed to blacken an optic or two on more than one occasion.

Sleeping next to Rodimus had been the closest to the Afterspark he’d ever felt. Rodimus had exuded a gentle warmth, his exvents, not so hot as many of the sportier car altmodes. The perfect temperature.

Ratchet squinted. Maybe it was the change of berth. It didn’t have to be Rodimus’ company.

He palmed the tablet, turning it over in his hands with an uncharacteristic trepidation. What could Rodimus possibly have had to say that he felt the need to leave it in a note?

It’s not like Ratchet was under the impression they were actually lovers in any capacity. But Rodimus, Rodimus was easily thrown for flights of fancy.

Ratchet hadn’t made it a conscious effort, but it was impossible not to take note of the ever-expanding revolving door of land rovers, race cars, and jets that made their way through Rodimus’ berth. His legendary promiscuity had even led Velocity to introduce a new section to the crew’s medical history charts. It painted a truly impressive portrait. Ratchet, had had some pretty crazy affairs in his younger days, himself, but even that paled to Rodimus.

And Rodimus was very much the type to mix business with pleasure. He wouldn’t put it past him to conflate their fake relationship with something more tangible.Something real. It was a dangerous path they were walking. And as much as he tried to reject it, one they were walking together. Damn Drift and his foolish plots!

First Aid walked by, scanning a chart, “First appointments are due in soon.”

He stopped, lowering the clipboard suspiciously, “You’re looking awfully cheerful today, Ratchet. Did you and Rodimus have a good—,” he looked up noting Ratchet’s ire and wisely switched courses, “The beds have all been made, I’ve sterilized all the equipment, and started a new brew of hot energon.”

Ratchet grunted.

“It’ll be ready in about ten, and I’ve changed my mind, you look as grumpy as usual.”

Ratchet opened his mouth.Thankfully for all medics involved, the med bay doors whisked open with a whoosh, Brainstorm shambling in, an exasperated Perceptor propping him up.

“His experiments finally caught up to him,” Perceptor said, in a way that invited little room for discourse while somehow implying exactly what happened was 100 percent Brainstorm’s fault. Ratchet shrugged, seemed about right. He still had a bone to pick with Brainstorm, after all, for his part in Drift’s plan.

Not that he’d ever allow it to effect his medical care. If he could treat the Slag Maker himself (and he had), he could treat one daffy scientist with a penchant for trouble.

Brainstorm mumbled something inaudible.

“You should have thought of that before you dosed me with an untested love potion. No, Rodimus and Ratchet do not count! You know perfectly well two bots a test group does not make.” Perceptor snapped.

Normally Perceptor’s incessant chatter was enough to drive Ratchet up a wall. If it could be said in four words, Perceptor made sure to say it in seventeen. If he was riled up, thirty. Today though his loquaciousness was akin to a blessing, a distraction from his inner turmoil.

Ratchet patted the cot, gesturing for Brainstorm to sit down. Pulling out his tools, he peered at the hairline crack trailing down Brainstorm’s right wing. It deepened, threatening to split open cragged gaps the closer it’s proximity got to his joint. A potentially disastrous injury, but if caught early, like so, merely only excruciatingly painful.

“Looks like a simple fissure,” he said, sanitizing his hands again and ripping open the poxy packet.

“It’s an easy fix, you’ll have to be easy on your wing until the poxy fully cures though. No transforming at least forty-five orns.”

Brainstorm whimpered pitifully.

“Well it’s you’re own damn fault,” Perceptor huffed, tapping a foot unsympathetically. “I don’t see what you’re so upset with anyway. The parameters of your experiment were skewed to begin.”

Brainstorm blinked, seemingly forgetting his pain, “What do you mean?”

Perceptor turned a vivid pink, “Well it stands to reason, if the outcome you were aiming to record was already fulfilled prior to experimentation, further trial would only create a false positive.” 

He was looking anywhere, but Brainstorm, seemingly fascinated by Velocity’s “Orthopedic Mishaps of the Cybertronian System” poster. Ratchet couldn’t fault him there, it was home to a disturbingly graphic illustration of Spike Rot and temporarily distracting to even the best of the crew.

Ratchet shook his head, wondering how long it would take for Brainstorm to realize the implications. For two of the smartest mechs onboard, they were shockingly slow in certain regards.

Leaving the two scientists to their revelations (or more likely lack of considering Brainstorm), he made his way back to the front desk, collecting a cup of warmed Energon en route.

Sipping from the mug he thought of Drift’s first calamitous attempts at courting him. Drift had been insanely poor, and then Drift had been insanely rich. As if attempting to make up for lost years he had showered Ratchet with expensive goods, ribboned candies, golden baubles, and crystal flowers. Excesses of them, every shape, color and size overflowing their vases, spilling from pots. Towards the end, his quarters had looked like the necrobot’s planet in spring. Ratchet’s nonexistent green thumb had insured it’s body count was nearly as high as well. Thankfully, Rodimus had yet to go that far. 

Stretching his back, he snatched up the discarded tablet from where he’d left it, unlocking the screen. “Now or never,” he thought and selected the only saved note on the disc.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the first time I've written over 10,000 words in a single story! how exciting! It's wrapping up quickly though

Drift’s face split into a grin, “You like him don’t you?”

“Shut up, no, I don’t!”

Rodimus looked in danger of stomping his pedes, his cheeks puffing up in anger. A childish tell Rodimus could never quite give up. Drift found it endearing. His own upbringing had forced maturity upon him rather quickly, so it was nice to see Rodimus’ childhood milder in at least in that comparison.

Rung had lectured him once on how the first hundred orns of sentience affected a sparkling’s temperament for life. It had been a grave, well-thought speech, full of compassion and empathy. Or at least it probably would have been if Drift hadn’t politely excused himself from the psychologist’s company preemptively. A great tactical maneuver was often masked as a retreat and Drift had found himself in poor mood to listen to the scientific evidence on how he was forever a degenerate monster.

“Rodimus is an ambulance chaser,” he sang, ripping away the pillow Rodimus had been using in attempt to conceal his reddening face. It wasn’t a fair move. It definitely wasn’t dignified, but Drift couldn’t help himself. It was like being on boosters again, a manic joy running through his lines coloring all of reality. Everything was good, the future shining: Rodimus was talking to him again. And now. Now there was even the chance Rodimus had seen the light.

Okay, so maybe not The (capital T) Light (captial L) that flourished in all matter and governed the laws of reality, a shining beacon that nourished all organisms great and small, The Light he dedicated his life to honoring and defending. No,  it was the gleaming light of Ratchet his eyes had been awoken to. Though, that wasn’t to say Drift wasn’t working on introducing the other Light or that he hadn’t dedicated his life to dear Ratchet in his own way.

 That morning Rodimus’ aura had bled soft hues cascading out in rose colored crystalline patterns.The pale pink of burgeoning attraction. When Drift had seen it he hadn’t believed it. Had Rodimus started developing amorous feelings for his wayward medic? Had his plan worked despite his best attempts?

Drift studied Rodimus’ aura again. No signs of deceit or ill-intent, not even a hint of the ominous teal-violet. Rodimus’ aura remained a virtuous pink. He would have to nurture this blossoming affection. But first, a little teasing. Sidling closer, he pulled an arm around Rodimus.

 “Tell me everything. What drew you in? That irresistible chevron? Ooh, or maybe the new paint job?” He tilted his head quizzically, excitement growing, “Don’t tell me: his sparkling personality?”

“I hate you,” Rodimus said half-heartedly, discarding the half-empty box of cakes onto the table in disgust. He’d brought them in an expression of apology. They’d long since scarfed them down over energon and friendly conversation, catching up with each other lives. Now they lay floor side watching the ventilation fans spin lazy circles.

Drift rolled over. “You know for the longest time, I couldn’t help but wonder. Did I really love him or was Ratchet just this mighty savior I’d been building up in my mind? He’s honestly saved my life so many times. In more ways then he knows too.

 And well, Ratchet’s not as well-known as Optimus, or even Magnus, and he’s not as flashy as you. But he’s surrounded by a lot of his own lore. You three are famous, but Ratchet, he’s infamous.”

 Rodimus smiled, cupping his head in his hands as he listened. Drift continued.

 “I’d be out in the trenches, and next thing you’d know some grease stain would be crowing about how Ratchet’s slapped Megatron himself or, or cured some incurable disease by arguing with it.”

Rodimus laughed, “I remember that! Optimus was livid for weeks that Ratchet had allowed himself to get that close to Megatron, let alone touch him.”

“Right? I was so worried I was only seeing what I wanted to see in him. The myth. The first time we met, for real I mean, not when I was high out of my mind or dying on an operating table, I was so nervous, what if he didn’t live up to his expectations. Or worse, what if he did?”

I was expecting to be swept off my feet. Instead, know what the first thing he said to me? Just threw me a broom and barked at me to sweep up the spilt energon. Not the sort of sweeping I had in mind.” 

“He’s Pitt Spawn,” Rodimus agreed, shaking his head.

“It took forever to get him to notice me in the way I wanted. We were always positioned on different bases, different missions. It’s hard to eke out quality time when one of you is thrown into every suicide mission south of Cybertron and the other is squirreled away in the deepest heart of the securest base. Not that Ratchet didn’t regularly find ways to escape his security for the frontline.” Drift shook his head, “He said it was where the patients were.”

‘Surprised Optimus didn’t try and LoJack him. Anyway, I finally got his attention aboard the Lost Light. Took 1.8 milla decacycles. Worth every single one.”

A comfortable silence loomed as Drift sunk deeper into nostalgia.

“Fine, there’s a little bit of interest, ok!” Rodimus crossed his arms over his chest. Drift blinked in surprise at the outburst.

“But I’ll have you know, I have a spark of interest for most Cybertronians. He’s not that special. Ratchet’s like Starscream. I’d be curious, but I wouldn’t want to commit right away, you know?Definitely wouldn’t admit to it in public. Test run, first.”

Drift bit his inner cheek hard. His optic’s welling up with fluid as his lips twitched upwards. Rodimus was too funny. Predicatable, but funny. He covered his grin by shoving another cake down his throat. Upsetting Rodimus again so soon didn’t sound advisable and he certainly didn’t want to backslide all the progress they’d made.

But Starscream of all mechs? He shuddered to think the hell that would be released if Rodimus and Starscream ever teamed up. Let alone became involved sexually. It would be great and terrible, cities would fall. But he was getting distracted and Rodimus was still talking.

“What am I going to do about it? Most bots just throw themselves at me, Drift, and you said so yourself, it took you ages to get Ratchet’s attention. I don’t do long-term courting. I don’t do courting. Pitts, if it takes longer than 3 orns to microwave I forget about it. I’m willing to try this out, but not if I have to run a fracking gauntlet for him.”

Drift chewed thoughtfully. First he’d have to alert Nightbeat the mystery was solved. The detective would be disappointed to learn the abandoned half-cooked energons were not offerings to a cruel god and the formation of a new cult, as he had theorized, but rather victims to Rodimus’ culinary apathy. The idea had been silly to begin with.

Second, he would need a plan.

“It’s not going to take you ages. You have me. I’ve been through this process before, I know the thing’s Ratchet likes and the things he doesn’t. I can guide you to make this as painless as possible. I have an idea.”

Rodimus looked unimpressed. He also looked desperate.

“So? What is it then?”

“It’s simple,” Drift said, grabbing a spare tablet and powering it on, “Here’s what we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drift, haven't you learned you lesson?


	9. final

Ratchet frowned down at the tablet. He’d been under the presumption he was familiar with virtually every cubic foot of the ship, from the shuttle bay down to the lowest of kitchens. Until today that was. The hallway before him looked distressingly unfamiliar. As had the one before that. Even with his advanced navigational programs running full blast, the Lost Light’s lower levels were a labyrinth of dead end corridors and split level staircases doubling back upon themselves in dizzying arrays.

In fact, studying his surroundings, he felt a little like Methuselah in the old Cybertronian myth. Lost and abandoned in an ancient maze, a crafty spider had gifted the mech a roll of twine, which he had used to escape, drawing a path with it. Ratchet looked around without much hope. No friendly spiders. Not even any unfriendly ones. And he was still lost.

The stagnant air hung heavy and stale, cloying his systems and making him lethargic. Above him a single emergency light hummed, occasionally flickering and plunging the entire hallway into darkness. He stepped over the mummified corpse of a another rust rat. It’s emaciated skull grinned back, teeth bared in an ersatz of laughter. At least one of them was finding this amusing.

This better not be where Rodimus took all his other dates. The makeshift morgue Ratchet had set up in the Medbay was nicer. Smelled better too. At least there the stench of rot only permeated the bodies.

But the coordinates on the tablet had not requested a meeting in the morgue, they’d requested one here. Or somewhere in the vicinity. Hopefully. He didn’t put it past Rodimus, fool of a mech, to have misplaced a decimal or superimposed a digit somewhere in his coordinates.

Ratchet imagined him lounging in Swerve’s, cocktail in hand, waiting for him, wondering where the doctor had wandered off to. Then he imagined his fist gleefully connecting with Rodimus. Swerve would have a Pitt of a time trying to get the fancy cocktail stains out of the vinyl. Not like he’d ever actually do it. Hit Rodimus, that was. He’d had enough violence for his lifetime, and he rather liked Swerve’s, despite the chatty mech’s best attempts otherwise. And besides recalibrating his servos from a such a severe shock would take orns. Still, it was a spark-warming fantasy to think about.

Of course, he’d considered brushing Rodimus off, telling him he was busy (he was). That whatever he wanted to say that was so secret could be communicated through the secure comm lines (it could).But something had held him back.

Rodimus was hardly a secretive mech in any of his affairs. Romantic or otherwise. It was like some perverse law aboard the ship. Somehow the entire crew had to know what he was doing, how it benefited them, and the level of heroics it took to participate in said act at all times. Him asking to speak to Ratchet in private and not over a loudspeaker was curious. Very curious.

But he hadn’t lived this long by jumping headlong into things either. He’d need to be cautious about this rondeau vous. He might act it, but Ratchet doubted Rodimus was stupid enough to try anything. Still walking in blindly was what dragged them into this whole mess in the first place. He wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice.

A string of reflective tape bearing the seal of Tyrest caught Ratchet’s eye. It roped around a doorframe, condemning any who bypassed it dire consequences. Ratchet doubted there was any real structural danger. By Magnus’ standards it was probably a crooked frame or loose screw. He’d risk it. Lifting the string of tape, Ratchet ducked neatly under it. Magnus could suck it. Besides he was here on official request from the Captain. If anyone had a problem with it, they could take it up with him. This defiance turned out to be short-lived as he turned the corner and sighed. He’d been down this corridor before. He was sure of it.

 

***

 

“Where is he? He should have been here already.” Rodimus snapped, tapping his foot in exasperation.

“Stop whining. He’ll get here when he gets here. Probably got distracted by something.” Drift said, laying out another folding chair and sprawling onto it with a fluid grace. “I ever tell you about the time Ratchet had to trim Whirl’s claws? Ultra Magnus kept complaining they were scraping up the counters.”

Under normal circumstances Rodimus would have been enthralled. Drift had a knack for storytelling that rivaled even Alpha Trion. Even if he did have the wicked tendency to over exaggerate. Not to mention any story involving Whirl promised to be a riot and a half at least. But he just couldn’t get their upcoming meeting with Ratchet out of his mind. It kept bubbling up threatening to overpower his higher functions in one big wave.

This wasn’t fair. Bots were interested in him. Not the other way around. He hadn’t had to actively pursue a romance, hook-up, or courtship in cycles, let alone one as stand-offish as Ratchet, not when other bots were beating down his door for a chance. Ugh, why couldn’t Ratchet be more romantic? Did he even like anything? He seemed to barely tolerate most.

Irritated at his own apprehension, Rodimus fiddled with one of the crystal flower bouquets, turning it’s leaf over and over in his palms. Ratchet had hardly struck him as the floral arrangement kind of guy, but Drift had insisted he loved the things, so here he sat with a selection of Mirage’s most expensive blossoms. Prick had probably overcharged him too.

Drift, who had been half-way through his rousing tale, furrowed his brow in concern. “Rodimus, have you been listening to me at all? I’d really not have to repeat it.”

Rodimus opened his mouth, placations on the tip of his tongue, he really hadn’t meant to ignore his friend, when the door shrilled open, groaning against it’s hinges.

Ratchet, as usual, looked furious.

“What in Primus is wrong with you? Scheduling a meeting down here!” He seethed, “Do you know how many times I got turned around because your dumb aft couldn’t leave reliable directions or a voicemail? This better be good, Rodimus!”

Rodimus froze, second and third thoughts crashing through his processor. Why did he want to do this again? It would be so much easier to stick to what he knew. Mirage was free, at the very least. He’d for sure appreciate the flowers. Enough to not resell them for a few days at the least.

Ratchet, though, was more intimidating than Optimus and Megatron combined. And he hadn’t even started hurling things yet. What was it about the medic that made his knees go weak?

Ratchet’s optics widened mid-curse as he noticed Drift. “What’s he doing here?” His asked, optics boring into Rodimus as if accusing him of turning traitor.

And perhaps, in a way he had. He’d been waiting here with Drift after all. Their sworn “enemy.” The engagement had been fake, true, but their shared plot had come with certain unstated expectations. Primely, that they were teaching Drift a lesson. If one went behind the other’s back, met with this enemy. Well, then wasn’t that cheating? What was the point procrastinating about it anymore.

“Drift already knows. About everything, I mean. That the engagement is fake. I told him earlier,” he said.

Ratchet folded his arms against his chest, his mouth set in a grim line. “This better be good, Rodimus.”

Drift, perhaps sensing an incoming argument, butt in, “Don’t put it all on him, Ratch. This was my idea. I convinced him to do it.” he said, shoulders sagging.

Ratchet fixed him an unimpressed look.

Rodimus winced internally. He knew that look all too well. That was the same perplexed look Optimus had when he’d misplaced the Matrix for the third time that orn. Or the exasperated sigh of Ultra Magnus after he showed up to shift hung over from the night before and three drinks into the next day already.

To call it simple disappointment was selling it short. It was so much more. It was the look of someone who believed in you realize they were wrong. That they’d made a mistake. Anger welled up inside him. Anger for his friend and anger for himself.

Rodimus opened his mouth, but Drift slid a silent hand over his shoulder, shaking his head. “I need to do this for myself,” his field seemed to say, “let me do this.” Rodimus nodded, placing his own hand over Drift’s. If Ratchet noticed their display of solidarity, he said nothing, merely gestured for them to get on with it.

“I wanted to apologize. To you both.” Drift said, picking at a patch of rust. “You’re both very important to me, and when I saw you didn’t get along, I couldn’t stand it. You’re both my best friends, but you hated each other. This isn’t an excuse, I just need to say this out loud, so please listen. I tried all kinds of trickery to get you along and it was wrong. I should have respected your feelings.

By wanting you guys to get along like I did with each of you separately. Romantically, I mean. I never realized you got along in you’re own way. Sure, you two never enjoyed each other’s company or had your own in-jokes, but I failed to see you already had a working relationship. You may have had disagreements, but you never fought. And, anyway I’m really sorry I tried to force what I thought was best, for my own selfish reasoning, on to the two of you.”

Rodimus blinked. He didn’t even want to know the expression his face was making. Really? Drift was such a drama queen. How long had he spent on that speech? And more importantly, why didn’t he put that much effort in writing Rodimus’ official speeches. He’d have to have a word with him later regarding good faith effort.

In the meantime how was Ratchet supposed to emotionally respond to all that? Pitt, Ratchet barely responded to loosing a limb, let alone a heartfelt plea. He’d have to move things along himself, as usual.

“Hey, man, we already went through this, you know I forgive you,” Rodimus clapped Drift on the back, plastering his face with a grin. He didn’t feel much like smiling, but Pitt if he wasn’t going to give it his all. Drift needed him.

And if Ratchet didn’t see how sorry he was, if he didn’t forgive him, he’d beat his frigging spark out. Drift deserved the best of everything. Luckily, for the three of them, it didn’t come to that.

“Get over here,” Ratchet grumbled, pulling Drift in.

“I never have been much good at abstaining from the things I like,” he said at Drift’s shocked face, “Gotta take them where I get them. I’m too old for grudges anyway. But for future reference: you ever lock me anywhere again, I’ll bolt your aft to the ship’s hull and take it to warp drive so fast Blurr would be jealous.”

Drift wiped an optic, “Deal. I’d deserve it.”

That was some relief. Whatever his reasons, Ratchet seemed to be mellowing out considerably.

Now if only he could use that to his advantage. Although, now that he thought about it Ratchet in a good mood wasn’t necessarily any less intimidating.

“Hey, Ratchet?”

Ratchet looked up,“Guess it’s our turn then, huh?” He asked. They both started at once.

“Actually, about last night—“

“In the suite—“

“Let me go first.” Rodimus said, “Please.” He wasn’t asking. He knew it was rude. Exceptionally so. But his courage was already ebbing away, if he didn’t say his piece now, he wouldn’t at all.

“Spending so much time with you… it sparked something. I don’t know what, maybe it’s lust, maybe it’s love. But I’d like to spend some more time with you to find out what!” The words tumbled out, thankfully Rodimus managed not to jumble them up too bad, but he could feel his face heating. He didn’t think it was near enough to cause an entire flame out, but Primus if he didn’t wish it was. He could sure use a fire to distract from the train wreck.

“Anyway, these are for you,” Rodimus thrust out Drift’s crystal bouquet, practically shoving the thing into a very startled Ratchet’s face.

Ratchet snatched the bouquet, “If this is some kind of joke, Rodimus, I swear to Primus—”

Drift burst out, choking in laughter, “He isn’t making fun of you, he’s coming on to you.”

Rodimus wanted to melt into the floor. This wasn’t going at all as he’d hoped.

Ratchet’s face was frozen in an expression of surprise, his fist clenched around the flowers. “I think you broke Ratchet!” Drift was in hysterics, howling with laughter.

“Don’t fall out of your chair,” Rodimus hissed, at the same moment Ratchet shifted to find a place for his flowers, somehow catching Drift’s chair leg with him. Drift frantically trying to maintain his balance, grabbed back, dragging Ratchet down with him in a heap of metallic limbs. Someone cursed, and then all three of them were laughing.

Ratchet looked up from under Drift, “I wouldn’t object to it.”

“Oh.” Rodimus didn’t know what to say to that. They sat in silence. “Would you like to do it again then?” he asked. Ratchet merely yanked him down into the pile in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this story went over 10k, considering I started it as a one shot  
> I still have a ways to go, but I felt like I learned a lot writing this. anyways thanks for sticking with it till the end1


End file.
